For Faina

I looked truth in the eye today,
in both of her lake-green eyes:
pools in whose depths
too much wordless fear and
anguish had been anchored.

And then I heard her speak.
She had a child’s voice,
soft and high and sterling-clear.
Such a voice should not belong
to eyes which have seen so much,

to tear-stained eyes which have taken
in from the tender age of five
the explosions of the shells,
the shredded bodies in rubble,
the flowers laid at infants’ graves.

But, even more than that,
when one hears such a voice
from a face with such eyes,
it is hard to turn away from.
And so, many choose not to hear.

Truth speaks, and she writes.
Her mind is full of starships,
and her heart is full of cats;
for that I’d praise her courage—
but my throat catches on such a word.

Not for any lack in her of courage!
No! I balk at the obscenity:
no thirteen-year-old girl
should ever have her ‘courage’
tested under shell fire for eight years.

And yet still that voice comes:
soft and high and sterling-clear,
defying those who would consign her
to darkness and to silence.
Truth has always spoken thus.

- Matthew Cooper, 25 August 2022

Backyard ghosts

Ghosts haunt my backyard.
The plywood and the concrete
Both try to stifle up their voice,
So they can’t be easily heard.
But they’re whispering all the time.

Ghosts haunt my backyard.
They’ve learned to cover their tracks.
They step without disturbing
The twigs and branches and blades of grass.
But somehow they’re still walking.

Ghosts haunt my forgotten history.
Static crackles on the radio, talking Morse.
Or, then again, there’s a click,
Like a door being locked from inside
Or like an emptied Colt Single Action.

Ghosts haunt my dreams as well.
Was I ever supposed to be here?
The rustle of shedding clothes,
The parting of pale, varicose thighs –
Lewd fingers slither down bellies
Into places I shouldn’t see.
Am I just imagining their sighs?

Or is there danger in their cries?
They linger muffled in the air.
The ghosts fear taking up the space,
And the narrow cracks admit them –
Last shelter of the truly lost.

Even if I could, would I hear them?
Flat screens large and small hood my eyes.
Earbuds and Bluetooth block the noise.
Blaring guns, bombs and one-liners,
Captain America and Superman.

No ghosts living here, they say.
Who am I to argue? Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I’ve chased them all away,
Or maybe until that Judgement Day
Ever onward I’ll march in ignorance.

In the backyard, amid the plywood
And the concrete… why do I still feel,
Still know they’re there? Ignoring
Them doesn’t ever seem to dull
The phantom itch behind my brain.

The ghosts are unseen and unheard,
But never truly gone.

- Matt Cooper, 26^th February, 2019

離人垂頸嘆

離人垂頸嘆
雛鴨戲水玩
鏡下錦龜游
躬葦擺其頭
樺柏伸晚霞
月虧爬其家
珍寶再易得
難比此瞬刻

- 郭明正，2017年6月3日

Inclinata resurgo

In sixteen ninety nine Bill Cowper sailed:
For Penn’s wood he was bound, from Yorkshire hailed;
From throne-usurping Dutchmen did he flee
Professing Jacobite recusancy.

In Fox’s Inner Light his faith was stowed
And progeny aplenty overflowed
From union with his treasured Thomasine:
Their children, six. The eldest of their gene
Was Jonathan. His grandsons fell to war
When revolution bayed at every door
And rent each household bloody at the seam.
Cruel Carolina seizèd, with extreme
Élan for her republic’s high-flown aim,
All property to Jacob’s Tory name.

In dearth, the South still claimed my kinsmen’s blood
As war between the states unleashed the floods
Of grim unholy mechanistic din
In answer to our forebears’ racial sins;
The colours Joseph Delan boldly bore
Are those today of shame. But we ignore
The tales of yesteryear at our own cost.
If we forget, what more can we have lost?

Black, white alike, the crop-lien held in thrall,
Yet Franklin Dero heard the Navy’s call
To arms at sea against the Japanese;
Pacific’s name in irony took lease.
Once home again, the druggist’s art he gained
And settled on Potomac’s southern bend.
To his last days he kept in mind his land,
And thanks be to his son, now, here I stand.

For worse or better, bent on further star,
We fell and rose in this damn fool devoir,
Yet never fit; in shadow-struggles we
Threw wrenches in the great machinery
And thrust our fists up dauntless at the State,
But always acquiesced in our own fate.
Who sups the Devil’s meat and drinks his wine,
None’s hand is clean who e’er came hence to dine.
And Scandian, Rhinelander, Wend and Jew,
This blood of other streams – they knew it too.

This shot-torn gore-stained strand I’m holding here,
For all its sordid story, no less dear
To me, still troubled, prompts to circumstance:
God help us all – we are Americans.

- Matthew Franklin Cooper, 14 December 2015

月氏歌

天山路叉選一條
颳北風示吾歸遭
颻雪被戎血泮燒
聽遠西漠中慨號
追赤鹿者凡等儼
劃江船并遊凍原
酷滄長晦鍛煃魂
寒黑中聽烔義論

- 郭明正, 2011年11月20日

Translation:

Song of the Tokharians

I choose a path from a fork in the Tian Shan road,
As the North Wind whispers to me, 'turn back'.
The driving snow is melted by the heat of my barbarian blood
As I hear the distant lament from the western desert.
Among the followers of the elk, all are equally glorious,
The river-boat rowers and the tundra wanderers.
Bitter cold and long nights forge hearts afire;
In the winter dark one hears the scalding word of justice.

- Matthew Cooper, 20 November 2011

無題

傳聲不可知
回答何境意
日日爬山聽
時樂時哀已
坐峰決無遁
終聞仙緲樂
慰偯咷之音
安心歌也悅
每瞠雲雨霽
抱愛水風姮
自沉撫心問
曰者或回聲

- 郭明正，2011年10月28号

塔上站观

塔上站观黑云者　紧目见月踪
围吾轰之疑为雷　何持静无悚
曾其无旨盲徊也　八道而非足
亦被运跌而飏之　波中迷小孺
为何开愚揽世愤　为何敢再恋
吾意求安愈难安　直至近汝身
则冷风雨雪不怵　因内人爱仡
吾可辞塔达汝也　乃要汝信力

- 郭明正，2011年06月17日

盼堉岛

其是易喜　直观月亮
故为窃示　心门曾爽
吾命之愿　歆爚脸笑
夜星海里　邃堉之岛
夏暖和风　云光红晓
吾臂上来　到远拥抱
情理烈乃　念跟内日
到七箛鸣　到光末世
这仆誓也　站天东岸
希随月归　海陆皆安

- 郭明正, 2011年5月30日

在吾鞋里

在吾鞋里　要往何遍
何长走路　足疲之前
能见同涯　能应暴风
寻明日泉　渴过心疼
面对街叉　要选道路
标都没看　粗心无图
顾你之星　缥缈之声
其之情调　以上孤匉
抓其光亮　汩而灭之
自劝不管　暗藏诚实
血也嚎叫　峭壁之上
吾都爱你　霎眼永恒

- 郭明正 (Matt Cooper), 2011年3月6日

Seven of spades

Seven of spades face-down in the dust,
Sidewalk spinning out in sinking gravel slopes:
Land of trust, land of higher hopes.
You soar like an eagle,
Tiny shadow in the sunlight, or
You blow away like smoke.
Can you be at rest this high up?
It's easy; has to be: mountain, steppe,
Village and town – whatever else you do,
Just don't look
Down.

Do I feel dizzy, or do I feel hungry
Spiralling out of the sun?
Will I land face-down in the dust,
Fallout crashing heavy metal –
Seven spade-shaped thunderheads
Or maybe seven thousand
Await me, roaring, on the ground.

I pick them up and turn them over,
Tuck them in my billfold,
And wait for a wind to pick me up
Back into the chilly September sky.

- Matt Cooper, 9 September 2009